Chapter 3 The Pact That Binds

It had been thirty-seven hours since Aven Rhoen had slept.

She sat at the edge of her bed, hoodie pulled over her head, legs curled beneath her like she might bolt at any second. Her fingers wouldn't stop twitching, like her nerves were trying to crawl out through her skin. The mark at the base of her back hadn't burned since the night in the forest but it hadn't gone quiet either.

It pulsed.

A soft, rhythmic beat, like a second heartbeat beneath her skin. A reminder.

Riven hadn't returned.

And that bothered her more than she was willing to admit.

---

It was Saturday. Which meant the town was pretending it wasn't dying.

Farmers markets bustled on the main street. Locals haggled over jars of pine jam and home-cured meat. Kids chased each other with paper kites in the church field. And nobody, absolutely nobody, was talking about the black-clawed monsters in the woods.

Aven walked through it all like a ghost.

People stared. Whispered.

She heard her name in fragments.

"...Rhoen girl..."

"...her aunt never speaks..."

"...strange eyes, that one..."

She tried not to let it bother her. But it did.

Because she was strange now.

The girl who had walked into Hollowveil and returned.

They didn't know what had happened, of course. But they felt it. Like animals sensing a storm underground. The air around her was different now. And maybe it wasn't just paranoia.

Maybe the forest had left its scent on her.

---

Aven ducked into the Pine Hollow library. An old stone building half-covered in ivy and badly patched roof tiles. It was quiet, always, and it didn't ask questions.

The librarian, Mrs. Ellory, gave her a stiff nod.

"You're early."

"Couldn't sleep," Aven murmured.

Mrs. Ellory said nothing, but her eyes softened. She gestured to the archives door.

Aven had been sneaking into the restricted section since she was twelve. No one had stopped her. No one really cared. But today, her reason for being there wasn't idle curiosity.

She wanted answers.

She wanted to know what the hell the Pact was and how long her bloodline had been cursed to keep it alive.

---

The town records were older than the town itself. Faded leather books lined the shelves, some missing covers, some burned, some wrapped in what she really hoped was animal hide.

She found the ledger marked 1820–1850.

The pages crackled like dried leaves.

And there, in cramped ink, was the first mention:

> "June 3rd, 1832. The forest took Jonah Rhoen, aged 9. Returned the next day, untouched, save for a silver brand low on the spine. Claimed the trees whispered his name. Eyes vacant. Smiled when the fire took the barn."

Aven's blood ran cold.

She flipped to the next entry.

> "August 11th, 1857. Willow Rhoen. Same mark. Same story. This time, the Hollowveil demanded a trade: keep her within the border or the trees would consume the outer farms. She was confined to the chapel until the frost broke."

More entries followed. Every generation. Always one child. Always Rhoen blood.

The town knew.

The council knew.

They'd always known.

Aven slammed the book shut, heart pounding in her throat. She leaned back, trying to catch her breath. The weight of inherited pain settled heavy on her chest.

They let it happen.

The town had fed the forest her family, generation after generation, in exchange for peace.

She was the last.

The final anchor.

Which meant if she broke the cycle...

The town would burn.

---

She left the library in a daze, the sun far too bright after so much shadow. Everything felt fake. Fragile. Like the glass on a museum display meant to keep the truth out of reach.

Aven walked the length of Main Street without seeing it.

She turned down the path behind the diner, where the scent of grease and pine hung in the air, past the abandoned train station, until the town faded behind her.

Then she waited.

And when the first crow landed in the tree above her and let out a caw that sounded like her name, she whispered, "I need to see him."

The air shifted.

Riven stepped from the shadows between trees as if he'd been there the whole time.

"You called," he said.

She didn't waste time.

"What exactly is the Pact?"

He didn't flinch. "A deal struck to keep balance. Your ancestor offered her bloodline. The forest accepted."

"Why her?"

"She walked into Hollowveil during the darkest moon and asked it to spare the town from the rot. In return, she offered her descendants."

"Like slaves."

"Like tethers," Riven corrected. "Without the mark, the Rift unravels. The Shaded breaks free. They spread beyond the trees."

Aven's jaw clenched. "And what happens to the marked ones? After they're used up?"

Riven was silent.

She stepped closer. "Tell me."

"Most are taken."

Her stomach dropped.

"But not all," he added.

She stared at him.

He looked calm. Too calm.

Like he'd seen it too many times to mourn it anymore.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked.

Riven's silver gaze dropped to the dirt. "Because you're not like the others."

"That's not a real answer."

"No," he said. "It's not."

Aven narrowed her eyes. "You're scared of what I'll become, aren't you?"

He didn't reply.

"You think I'll break the pact."

He finally met her gaze again.

"You already are."

---

That night, she dreamed again.

She stood in the clearing by the Rift, but this time the monolith was shattered. Black smoke curled from the stones, and the trees around her whispered not in voices but in screams.

And across from her stood Riven.

Not as he was now.

But younger.

Barefoot.

Bleeding.

Crying.

He reached toward her with shaking hands, and the voice behind her whispered, He remembers you.

Aven woke up gasping, her sheets soaked, her mark glowing through her shirt.

And in the silence of her room, she wasn't sure which part scared her more:

The forest's voice.

Or the part of her that wanted to answer it.